


tea brewing and other secret love languages

by alexiley



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Jon Doesn't Know How To Take Care Of Himself, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, No beta we die like archival assistants, Season/Series 01, Self Care Never Heard of Her, So Martin Has To, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25175881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexiley/pseuds/alexiley
Summary: Jon works himself to pieces. Martin tries to put those pieces back together through the only way he knows how: making tea.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 29
Kudos: 219





	tea brewing and other secret love languages

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime in early s1

Jon feels terrible by the end of the day.

This really isn’t any different from any other day spent working in the archives though. Reading statements for hours on end, poring over nearly incoherent notes, dealing with the nightmare of a filing system—if it can even be called that—all leave Jon completely drained.

Of course that never stops him from working late into the night, only deciding it best to head back to his flat once drowsiness starts dragging at his eyelids and only then because the fatigue is incredibly inefficient and not at all constructive to making any sort of progress on the mess of an archive his predecessor had so graciously left for him.

And God forbid Tim catch him sprawled out on his desk in the morning because he so much as allowed himself a second to rest his eyes. This has already happened once before which, in his humble opinion, is once too many. (He hasn’t yet managed to get a hold of Tim’s phone to delete the pictures of the incredibly unprofessional state he had been found in, but he intends to.)

But now the words are beginning to blur on the pages spread out in front of him. The whir of the tape recorder is almost too loud in the otherwise stifling quiet of his office, and, after pausing for only a moment of consideration, he flicks it off and lets his head fall onto his desk with a defeated sigh, not caring that some of the statements stacked on his desk flutter to the floor.

His head is throbbing in time with his heart, so it’s not surprising when he fails to hear the knock on his door.

“Jon?”

Normally he would try to hold himself to some sort of standard of decorum, but Jon’s entire body is a mess of aches and pains, so he allows himself a groan. “What is it, Martin.”

The door opens tentatively, revealing Jon’s least favorite assistant, nursing a steaming cup of tea.

“S-sorry to bother you, but I just thought I’d bring you some tea—“

“Yes, yes, fine. Just set it down there.” Jon hasn’t lifted his head from his desk but gestures vaguely at a space he knows is not covered in misfiled statements. He more feels Martin set the cup on the desk than sees it.

A moment passes in silence. Jon sighs and finally lifts his head. “Is there something else you need?”

Martin startles a bit as if he hadn’t realized he’d been hovering at the edge of Jon’s desk in silence for close to a minute.

“No, no, nothing—well actually yeah. Tim and Sasha left ‘bout an hour ago and I just wanted you…” he trails off, looking anywhere but at Jon before swallowing thickly and continuing. “I’m… I'm headed out too so…” 

Jon is suddenly struck by the time. He glances at his watch to see it’s well past eight. Normally this wouldn’t alarm him but he hasn’t left his office all day, and it catches him a bit off guard. He shakes his head to himself wryly; it’s not as if time has ever been a very concrete thing down in the archives anyway.

“Yes,” he begins cautiously, finding he is still unsure what Martin wants. “Well...good night, Martin.”

Martin opens his mouth as if to say something else but closes it just as quickly, nods absentmindedly to himself and turns to leave.

Jon brings his hands to cradle his head against the suddenly very bright lights and hopes pressing his eyes closed will relieve the tension building behind them.

But then almost as soon as Martin walks through the door, he’s back again, looking flushed whether from embarrassment or something else Jon is too tired and pained to decipher he isn’t sure. Jon lets out a little huff anyway. “What is—“

“Jon, please go home,” Martin spits the words out as if they’re burning him.

Silence stretches between them, Martin stiff as if waiting for a reprimand. Jon’s sure the face he’s making at the moment is not at all professional.

“What?” he splutters incredulously. “I assure you I’m perfectly capable of—“ he’s cut off by a poorly timed yawn for which he curses whatever deity most readily available.

Martin seems to soften a bit then. “Jon, you're exhausted. _Go home_.”

Jon could easily make a fuss about his assistant telling him, quite abruptly, what he _should_ _do_ , but he finds he’s far too tired for that. His shoulders slump in defeat, and he glares up at Martin because that’s about all he can manage at this point.

“Fine.”

Martin smiles then. Jon thinks it’s unfair that someone should have a smile so warm.

With some reluctance, he stands from his chair, and almost immediately the world goes dark around the edges. His breath catches in his throat as he feels the world spin around him and thinks about how incredibly unprofessional it will be to pass out in front of a co-worker as the cold, unforgiving floor rises up to meet him.

But then it stops, Jon stops. The world’s still spinning but he has an anchor now. He curls his fingers around something soft and warm and feels it envelope him as he pitches forward again, unable to hold himself up any longer.

There’s a small squeak, and Jon is swiftly brought back to the present in which it was _Martin Blackwood_ who caught him, _Martin Blackwood_ who was his anchor, and _Martin Blackwood_ who is now holding him in his arms because Jon’s legs can no longer support him.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry—“ Jon isn’t sure whose apologies they are or what they’re for, but he does know he’s still too weak to stand properly so he and Martin may be stuck like this.

He wishes he could say he minds it.

Martin is warm and his jumper is soft and a deep blue that reminds Jon of the ocean or maybe the sky just before the sun rises in the morning. Martin smells like cinnamon and the tea he always brings Jon much to his own annoyance. It’s funny though; he can’t for the life of him remember why it was always such a nuisance. All he can think about is how Martin is holding him tightly and how safe he feels there in his arms. When was the last time someone held him? Properly held him? Probably hadn’t been in years. It's nice being held. _Martin’s_ nice.

But then Jon remembers he’s still leaning rather heavily on his assistant because he had just nearly passed out on the floor and not by any actual intention. His cheeks flush.

“Jon?”

And there’s his name again, a familiar, kind thing when Martin says it. This time he can _feel_ his name with his head propped up against Martin’s chest, the sensation settling deep in his bones.

“Jon?” Martin prompts again.

“Hmm.”

“Have you eaten anything today?”

Jon thinks about it for a moment, eyes still shut against Martin’s chest. Has he eaten today? He can’t remember. He knows he’s had at least two cups of tea, courtesy of Martin. But actual food? His stomach growls unhappily at the thought. He’ll take that as a no.

Martin sighs and it almost sounds fond. “Right. Come on.”

Jon feels Martin begin to pull away and almost immediately the harsh light hits him full force and his head starts to pound again. He lets out a small groan.

Martin is there then, an arm wraps around Jon’s torso--probably the only thing keeping the slighter man standing--as together they head toward the break room. Jon tries to tell himself he isn’t leaning into Martin’s touch but then again he has never been a good liar.

With some careful assistance from Martin, Jon sits down and watches as Martin moves away to inspect the state of the break room’s food supply.

Martin hums in disappointment upon opening the relatively bare cupboards and pulling out only a half-open box of biscuits. “S’not much here. I could run out for some takeaway.”

Jon shakes his head, beginning to feel well and truly sheepish from all the attention. “No need. This is fine.”

Martin goes through the familiar motions of brewing yet another pot of tea while Jon picks at his food in silence. When Martin finally sits down, it’s across from Jon and he can’t help but wish he wasn’t so damn far away. He misses his warmth already, and could easily, selfishly say so. He stares into his tea instead as if its depths hold some sort of sign of how to proceed without continuing to make a nuisance of himself.

After a stretch of silence--awkward on Martin’s part, guilty on Jon’s--Jon clears his throat and shifts back into his remote and professional manner. “Thank you, Martin, for…well everything,” he shakes himself. _Get it together, Sims_. “You should go ahead and go home. I’ll be getting back to work now so--”

Martin laughs abrasively “Absolutely not!”

Jon looks up sharply, suddenly feeling a bit more peeved than he had a moment ago. “Martin--”

“We’ve already been over this. You’re not a machine, Jon,” Martin says, a bit gentler this time. “You’re exhausted, and you need sleep.”

Jon crosses his arms in frustration, keeping his gaze trained on a spot two feet from Martin’s head. “There’s a cot set up in one of the back rooms. I’ll sleep there.” A compromise. Maybe now Martin will leave him alone.

“Alright,” Martin nods stiffly and stands from his chair, outstretching his hand. “Let’s go then.”

Jon thinks about refusing, but then again he’s already sacrificed most of his dignity tonight. What’s a little more.

He takes Martin’s hand and once again lets himself lean on his...what is Martin now? Assistant or co-worker both sound too uptight and distant considering Martin has now seen him in one of his worst states. Friend? No that doesn’t sound quite right either; he and Martin have never really been friends.

He ponders on this until they reach the back room, and Jon lowers himself onto the cot. As soon as he touches it, he feels the exhaustion hit full force. His head still throbs dully, but he’s sure he’ll feel significantly better if he just lies down, so he does, eyes already beginning to slip shut much to his chagrin.

Martin huffs out a small, amused breath. “Right, well...good night, Jon.”

He starts to back away to the door, but Jon can’t just let him leave without...without what? Why doesn’t he want Martin to leave? Why does he care?

“Martin,” he calls softly.

Martin stops, but he is a fuzzy silhouette to Jon’s half-lidded gaze.

“...Thank you”

There’s a soft sigh, unbearably fond. “Get some sleep, Jon.”

And he does.

As he sleeps, Jon dreams of the gentle press of a kiss to his forehead and a hand to his cheek. It’s kind and warm much like the person to whom it belongs.

When he wakes in the morning, it’s back to the statements, but for now, he thinks he’ll allow himself one good dream. Just one.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're curious, yes, Tim still has those pictures of Jon sleeping at his desk, yes, he keeps them for blackmailing purposes, yes, he likes to send them to Martin at seemingly random hours of the day just to see his reaction. He's a menace, that Timothy Stoker.  
>   
> Anyway, thanks so much for reading. Comments and kudos are always appreciated.  
>   
> Come say hello on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/alexiley)


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